


Here Boy

by Gorgeous Nerd (gorgeousnerd)



Series: WIP Amnesty [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:56:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeousnerd/pseuds/Gorgeous%20Nerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam always wanted a dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Work-in-progress amnesty disclaimer again: I did run spell check, but again, I didn't go through my usual grammar/consistency/accuracy clean-ups. There's no ending, but while it's not likely, I reserve the right to finish this later. I'll probably leave this version up if I ever do.
> 
> Other I-didn't-want-to-tag-an-unfinished-story notes: The story's Sam/Dean, and while there isn't anything sexual, it's two brothers doing not-explicitly-negotiated kink together. It was going to be for my kink_bingo animal play square, and it was originally going to be very broad in scope, ranging from pre-series Teenchesters to the end of season seven. I even started writing this months before s8 started to air with the idea that it could possibly be canon-adjacent for the entire existing show. But summer kicked my rear end and I couldn't get the scenes the way I wanted them, so even though I tried cutting a few things and ending it with the s3 finale, it just wasn't working for me. I ran up against the end-of-fest deadline and wrote [Say Hello to the Brushfire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/549750) for the square instead and pretty much gave up on this one. Still, I really liked writing what's essentially realistic kink in a fantasy universe where the fantasy elements have nothing to do with the kink in question.
> 
> Again, feel like commenting if you feel like talking about it. Even if I do nothing with it, it's a good thought exercise to try and figure out what didn't work and how to fix it.

[one]

The gash on Sam's leg is Dean's fault.

He stares at it as he helps Sam into their motel room, bracing enough of Sam's weight that he doesn't have to use the crutches the hospital provided. The wound's neat now, stitched and relatively blood-free, but just after the ghost had thrown Sam and he'd scraped hard against an exposed piece of rebar, it was open and raw and covered in red. If Dean had been watching Sam's back like Dad told him...if he'd been paying attention...

Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean's face. "Dude. Don't drop me."

"Screw you." But Dean braces Sam more carefully as he lowers him onto the bed.

It isn't enough to erase the scowl on Sam's face. "Dad wasn't right, okay? I was in your blind spot. My fault."

Dad had pulled Dean aside at the hospital while Sam was getting stitched up and talked to Dean in a low, quiet voice. He never yells at Dean. He doesn't have to. 

"Because I wasn't watching out for you," Dean says.

"Because I moved there even though Dad told me not to." Sam hisses a little as he scoots up the bed, but he waves Dean off. "So don't. It's okay, really."

Dean rubs a hand over his forehead. Sam's pale and a little sweaty, but he's fluffing up his pillows like it's no big deal. Like Dean didn't fail him.

After a minute, he manages to say, "I'll go get your prescriptions filled."

"Unless we're magically not in the middle of nowhere, I don't think any pharmacies are open at three in the morning." Sam folds his hands on his stomach. "Especially on a Sunday."

Dean rolls his eyes, but he takes out the six-pack he'd left in the mini fridge earlier. He pulls off a can and tosses it to Sam. "Your other painkillers wore off, right? We'll have a couple beers and find a pharmacy after we wake up."

"Dad's gonna kill you if he finds out." It doesn't stop Sam from popping the top of the can. Or from smiling widely.

Dean holds up a beer of his own and says, "Cheers."

Sam takes a long swing and coughs. Dean doesn't laugh. Much.

-

"So it turns out the guy knew his girlfriend since, like, day zero. They were born in the same hospital hours apart, and then their moms lived down the street from each other, and bam, school. And love, Dean."

"Sounds kind of creepy to me." Dean smirks around his can.

"But it's not. They're my age, and they've had this _life_ together." Sam waves a hand and knocks his two empty beer cans off the bed. "They're going to the same college."

Dean puts his empty can on the table next to him. "And they'll get married after they graduate and move back to the same street where they lived as kids and get buried in the cemetery where their great-great-whatevers are buried. Story's already written, Sammy."

"You know what else I've always wanted?"

"Besides a white picket fence?"

"A bike. We can't fit a bike in the car."

Dean snorts. Like Dad would even let them try. "You even know how to ride a bike?"

"I could learn! I could take time and just...ride, you know?" 

Sam tilts to the side, and Dean winces, standing up quickly. But when Sam's hurt leg flops, he just laughs and slaps the mattress next to him. At least the beers are doing something.

"I'm cutting you off." Dean grabs a blanket he brought in from the car and spreads it on top of Sam. No way are they bothering with motel blankets tonight. "I'm blaming the whole lightweight thing on your blood loss, just so you know."

"And a dog."

Dean turns off the lamp between their beds. "Uh-huh."

Sam nods, hair flopping around him. "He could be a real companion, you know? Someone to go places with me. Play fetch. All of that."

Dean sits on his bed and starts unlacing his boots. "Slobber on your books, shed on your clothes--"

"He would be a friend."

It's said casually, but quietly, quieter than Sam's been saying anything else. Dean's chest clenches, and he lets his shoelaces fall to the floor.

"I could do that for you," he says, jaw clenched.

Silence falls. For a few minutes, the only noises come from the fridge, the buzzing of the bathroom light, and Dean's harsh breath. He doesn't look up from the floor at Sam.

Finally, he says, "I mean, I'm your friend. And I don't even piss in the car."

Sam snorts something that's probably a laugh. Dean's shoulders loosen, and he kicks off his boots.

"But what about that one time in--"

"Good night, Sam."

Dean climbs into bed as Sam snorts again, but as he pulls the covers up to his chin and faces the door, he can feel Sam's eyes on him. He feels them long after Sam should be asleep.

-

[two]

As Sam walks in the mom-and-pop store, breathing in the unique scent of wood and non-chemical clean that he's never really smelled anywhere else, he can't help but think California's a whole different beast than the Midwest. Or most places, really.

It's not like Sam hasn't known. He and Dean and Dad went up and down the coast plenty of times, weaved in and out of the mountains on jobs, and even disappeared into patches of desert and forest when something came close. But California, and particular Palo Alto, is a place he's never associated with Dad. It's too...neat.

A flash of blonde catches his eye, and he grins in reply to Jess's quick smile as she turns into the next aisle. Just a second, she'd said when they'd pulled up. Like Sam isn't willing to give her all the time she needs.

When he rounds the corner, something more aromatic hits his nose. He sniffs for a second before he reads the labels. Organic litter? He's definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Sam's busy enough looking at the weird local brands that he nearly trips on the dog beds sticking into the aisle. He nudges it back into place with his calf, smiling a little. He did always want a dog.

_"I could do that for you."_

"Hey. I'm ready when you are."

Sam pecks her on the cheek. As he draws back, she says, "Dog beds?"

"You like dogs?"

"Maybe." She grins. "Should I add that to the list? Must be close to the law library, have two bedrooms, and allow pets?"

"Dogs," Sam says, slinging his arm over her shoulder. "I couldn't care less about cats."

"It's not usually exclusionary like that, babe." Jess pats his arm and turns for the register. "But I'll keep it in mind."

Sam lingers for a little longer, watching her walk. He nudges the dog bed one more time just because he can.

"Dogs," he says again, quietly.

-

[three]

After Dad dies, Dean comes back to himself in inches. A flare of happiness when a vamp's head comes off, a dragging sadness when he spots something of Dad's in the trunk, the bite of anger when Sam shoves. Sam's really good at shoving; he always has been. Dean can't help but shove back, but it's like pushing through mud: unless he really flares out, he just sticks closer.

And then he's kneeling in real mud, trying to keep Sam's head up, pressing his hand to the bloody wound in Sam's back.

It's not easy after that. But it's simple. It's nothing to sell your soul when there's so little to keep and so much to get back.

-

Sam doesn't jar loose, not in the same way.

"This is my last year," Dean says on a job. It doesn't seem like much to ask Sam for a Christmas, especially with everything.

Sam says, "I know. That's why I can't."

They get through the pagan gods and the way-too-strong nog just like Dean wants, and Sam's great about it on the day. But the snow clears, they move on, and Sam shuts up. The try-hard edge from months before is gone.

Dean never thought he'd miss it.

-

The motel Dean chooses on New Year's Eve doesn't have a mini fridge, but it does have a bathroom with a tub and a window. It'll suck taking a piss in the middle of the night, but sometimes, cold beer is worth the sacrifice.

Slightly tipsy means Sam's talkative. Or it would, if Sam had stuck to a beer or two. Instead, he's surrounded by empties, stinking like he fell into a keg, and clinging to Dean.

"Come on, dude," Dean says, patting Sam awkwardly on the shoulder. "If I wanted a drunk guy slobbering on me, I could've hit any bar tonight."

Sam wipes away his drool with a shaky hand. "Your last N'Year. Should be..."

"Getting laid?" It's Dean's usual New Year's tradition. Best way to get out with the old and in with...well. "Plenty of time for that."

Sam shakes his head hard. "Isn't."

Dean pats his shoulder. And then he sits up. "You know what? We should go to a shelter. Get you that dog you're always talking about."

Sam stills. He doesn't smile, which is kind of what Dean was shooting for. "What?"

"Yeah, I know you said..." Before he left. Dean sets his jaw automatically, and it takes him a second to relax it again. "Dogs are really sensitive to ghosts, and the way monsters stink...didn't that one friend of Pastor Jim's take a retriever on the road with him?"

Sam doesn't answer.

"Bobby's had a couple dogs. He could keep an eye on yours if you needed a few days free."

Sam stares at his hands and swallows hard. "And then the dog will die on a hunt or of old age in a couple years, and I'll be alone. Again."

It's almost like the way their last talk ended all those years ago. Except before, Dean said...god, it's like it was yesterday, like Sam was the beanpole that was just starting to hit his adult height and Dean was still the guy he looked up to.

Soon, Dean won't even be around to pretend Sam still sees him that way.

Dean slides off the bed and onto his knees. It has to be the warm beer in his gut making everything hazy; he's still enough of himself to know he wouldn't do this normally. But it feels right. It feels right when Dean sinks onto his hands, too. Or maybe like he's looking for something lost under the bed, but not like anything it shouldn't.

Until Sam raises his hand. Like he wants to pet.

But actually, that doesn't feel weird, either. It just feels different.

Dean crawls forward, the motel carpet scratching a little against his jeans, and bumps Sam's hand with his head. Nothing happens for another moment, and it's the pause that makes something twists in Dean's gut that isn't entirely pleasant. His hands clench, and he's about to get up and go finish the last six-pack in the tub when Sam's hand drops to his head and drags against the strands on Dean's head.

Dean swallows. He leans in, rests his cheek against the seam of Sam's jeans, and lets his eyes flutter shut.

He doesn't hear Sam sniffle once while his hand moves.

-

[four]

Sam starts in the middle of the night...morning, actually, since it's New Year's Day and he was up late. He's been waking up almost every night since Christmas, sitting straight up in bed and checking to make sure Dean's in his bed. 

Dean isn't in his bed.

Sam throws back the sheets. The car keys are still on the nightstand, so he didn't drive away. But where--

The sheets fall on Sam's legs again. Sam twitches, but he looks over at the grumbling lump on the other side of the bed, and just like that, his breaths starting coming easily again.

Dean had helped Sam into bed. Sam remembers that much. He had nearly fallen asleep touching Dean - _petting_ him - and one of the times Sam had picked up his drooping head, Dean had stood in front of him, rolling his shoulders like it felt weird. Sam had let Dean tuck him in, and he'd fallen asleep.

Sam must have missed the rest of it.

He lies back down, tugging the sheets into place. Dean doesn't fight him for them, which means he's awake, but his back's turned, and his breath is still even and long.

Sam holds a hand out. He doesn't touch right away, partially because he can't make himself do it and partially because he keeps drawing back. But finally, he lays his palm on Dean's head, feels the prickly hair against his skin, and exhales a shaky breath.

Dean's stopped breathing deeply.

They still have plausible deniability at this point. Sam's still a little drunk, and even if he doesn't stumble into the other bed, he can pretend this never happened. They can both pretend.

Except, somehow, it doesn't feel that simple.

-

They don't talk about it for the next few days. There's not much to say, really. Sam goes to bed first every night while Dean's poking at the laptop or watching TV, and when Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, Dean's on the other end of the bed, snoring. It's a lot easier going back to sleep when Dean's right there.

Sam doesn't wake up on his own the fourth night. He wakes up because Dean's thrashing in his sleep, kicking Sam's legs and pushing the sheets away from him.

"Hey." Sam grabs Dean's wrists to keep him from punching. "Hey! Dean!"

Dean's eyes fly open. He stares at nothing and shoves, throwing his weight into it.

"Stop! It's me!"

Just like that, Dean freezes. He looks at Sam, starting with his face and trailing his gaze down. To where Sam's straddling Dean's legs.

"What the hell," he says.

Sam rolls off. "You okay?"

Dean doesn't answer. He breathes hard for a second, head against the pillow, and rubs his chest. After a minute, he glares at Sam.

"Show's over," he says, and he stomps into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The sound of the shower drowns out anything Sam could yell.

Sam wakes up the next morning with Dean dressed and the bed cold beside him. That on its own wouldn't mean that Dean didn't get back to sleep, but the way Dean blinks hard while he's driving and reacts slowly when they're pulling a demon exorcism tells Sam everything he needs to know.

"'M fine," Dean mutters when they get back to the room, rubbing at his eyes.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Drop it, Sam."

Sam does. They eat their burgers, split off to do separate ends of research, Sam on his bed and Dean at the room's table, and they stick to one- or two-word sentences.

After an hour, Sam spots Dean dozing, head braced by one hand. Sam snaps a book closed, and Dean jerks up, looking around.

"Go to bed, Dean," Sam says.

Dean glances at the queen-sized bed Sam and his books are spread on. Then he looks at the bed's twin, untouched and empty. He blinks, and then he turns back to his book. "I was just getting into this."

"Seriously? Do I have to take it away from you?"

"You can try," Dean says, but the tough-guy vibe's ruined by the yawn at the end of the sentence.

Either way, it's fine with Sam.

It only takes him a second to stack his books and dump them on the empty bed. Dean might have watched and seen what was coming if wasn't half-asleep. But since he's still nodding off, Sam manages to tug the book away, snap it closed, and throw it on the bed with the rest. He grins tightly at Dean's scowl.

"Bedtime," Sam says.

Dean crosses his arms and jerks his chin up. "Fuck you."

Sam sets his jaw and rolls his head on his shoulder. He sits back in bed where he was, tugs the sheets away from Dean's side - it is Dean's side now, no matter what they haven't said - and pats the mattress twice. 

"Come," he says.

Dean's jaw actually drops. He looks around the room like he wants an out, and for a second, Sam's ready to take it back. But he shakes his head to clear the thought and stares back steadily when Dean finally meets his eyes.

"Come," Sam says again.

For a moment, Dean's shoulders hunch like he's going to drop to his hands and knees. Sam shivers as he flushes. But even though Dean doesn't follow through, he does walk over, take off everything besides his t-shirt and boxer-briefs, and lie down where Sam directed. He even closes his eyes, which means he doesn't seem Sam's grin.

Sam strokes Dean's hair. "Good boy," he whispers.

Dean stiffens for a moment, but as Sam continues to pet Dean in long, careful strokes, Dean sinks into the mattress. About ten minutes after Dean laid down, he doesn't so much as twitch when Sam jerks the comforter over him.

-

[five]

Sam wouldn't have had the idea if the gas station they'd stopped in wasn't connecting to a sporting goods store. The season's entirely wrong for it, but as Sam leaves a bathroom in the back, a couple plastic tubes of tennis balls catch his eye.

He shouldn't buy them. Dean's just started sleeping with him without pretending he's not, after all.

He catches Dean's reflection in one of the store's convex mirrors. He's loitering around the Twinkies like always does. Sometimes, it doesn't feel like a morning unless the car smells like Hostess products.

Except Sam's going to have a lot of mornings without them.

Sam grabs the tennis balls.

-

"Bring that to me?" Sam points at the table without looking up from the page.

"Dude, you were just up."

Sam gives him a steady look over his book and doesn't drop his hand. "So?"

Dean sneers, curling up his lip a little, but Sam doesn't so much as blink. Whatever. It doesn't matter that the books say nothing new and won't say anything new until they pick up a new batch from Bobby's. He could use a stretching break anyway.

But when he yawns and gets to his feet, he doesn't see books on the table. There's nothing except a green tennis ball, rocking slightly like Sam put it there on his way back from the car.

A tennis ball. That Sam just asked him to _fetch_.

It's one thing sleeping in bed with Sam, even if they haven't done it since they were really small. Even the whole hair-petting thing isn't a big deal. It's weird, but Sam doesn't talk about it, and Dean doesn't, either.

But this. It's not talking. It's something else entirely.

" _Dean._ "

And there's the look that replaced the weepy eyes. It belongs to a version of Sam he's only seen talking to Dad, except Sam doesn't burn with a hot fury. This is a simmer. This is controlled.

Dean leans forward and wraps his fingers around the ball. It's just a little rough, and it yields just a little as he puts pressure on and lifts it off the table.

He turns back to Sam, who's watching him as steadily as before, and starts to walk over.

It's only when he reaches out with the ball, head ducked just a tiny bit, that he spots the slightest curl of Sam's lips. Then he has to drop his gaze to the floor.

His skin heats when Sam speaks, almost too quietly to be heard. "Good boy."

Then Sam takes the ball from Dean's hand, sets it on the bed beside him, and goes back to reading. He doesn't look up at Dean again for a while even though Dean stands over him, gaping.

Finally, when Sam closes the book and rubs his face, he says, "Nothing in that one." He smiles up at Dean. "You can go sit down now."

Seriously?

Sam stretches and goes for his drink. Dean stares at him a little longer before he looks down at his hands and grunts. 

And even though he hates himself a little for it, he goes and sits down.

-

Sam isn't surprised when he tries the ball trick a couple days later, and Dean doesn't budge from lying on the bed. He doesn't grab it in the car when the ball's in the place he usually sticks his jacket in the backseat, and he lets it fall off his bag when they're leaving yet another motel.

"Hand it over," Sam says when they're at a diner and the ball's sitting between their placemats.

Dean stares it down like he can move it with the power of his mind. And then he smirks up at the server when she comes up.

"You boys ready to order?" she asks, grinning back down at Dean.

"You bet," Dean says.

Sam tucks the ball away.

He ends up going out to the front while their food cooks. They need papers to check for jobs, and all the diner's machines are outside. It sucks when this happens in January. It sucks when it happens in July, too. People should just keep their newspapers inside.

The idea comes to him when the machine's door is open and his fingers are glancing over newsprint. He smiles, and then he grabs the newspaper and rolls it up.

Then he laughs.

-

Sam ducks back to the motel before Dean's done flirting with the waitress. He makes a show of spreading out the paper on the bed in front of him like he normally would, but since it's the Sunday edition, he has a couple sections rolled behind him, resting between the small of his back and the headboard.

He also leaves the comics at the very edge of the bed because he knows Dean.

The door slams open in a few minutes, Dean carrying his boxed leftovers and humming under his breath. The smells of coffee and greasy food follow him inside. "Anything good?"

"Don't know yet." Sam bites back his smile and looks Dean square in the face. "Get me the tennis ball."

Dean freezes in the middle of taking off his coat. "What?"

"You heard me. Fetch."

Dean goes white as a sheet at the last word. His color comes back slowly as he finishes getting his arms free of his jacket, and then he flushes almost like he does when he's mad. As he tosses his jacket on the back of the chair, it bumps the table, which rocks enough to roll the ball over the surface.

Dean doesn't touch it. Sam didn't expect him to.

He gets to his feet, moving his hand behind his back to catch the rolled-up newspaper, and says, "I told you three times, Dean."

Dean turns back to Sam, and Sam holds his breath a little. But Dean jerks his head, snatches the comics, and says, "I wonder what's going on in Family Circus today."

Sam steps forward and smacks Dean's ass with the newspaper.

Their childhood taught Sam exactly what kind of pain tolerance Dean has. It's not that weird, probably. Kids smack each other and wrestle. But when you spar with your brother every day for years, you know exactly what hits do nothing and what hits sting.

He's not going for a sting here. He wants a startled noise out of Dean's mouth, and he gets it. Almost like a bark, if he thinks about it.

Dean drops the comics at his feet and glares at Sam.

"Now," Sam says, emphasizing each word. "Give me the ball."

Dean's eyebrows tilt up, and just like that, Sam knows Dean's got it, just like Sam got it earlier. It's balance. It's a rebuke to be soothed by a hand over Dean's hair and sleeping in the same bed. More importantly, it's caused by Dean's actions and Sam's response. A closed circuit.

It's why Dean's shoulders are loose as he leans closer to the table and wraps his fingers around the tennis ball. And it's why he waits long enough in place for Sam to draw his hand over Dean's head.

"Good boy," Sam whispers.

-

[six]

Somehow, Dean almost forgets what's coming. And then they go to Florida.

The first day is whacked, no question. He doesn't usually interrupt his breakfast by cornering a trickster god, and he doesn't usually lose the rest of the day after with the snap of a fingers. The refrain in his head before Sam wakes up the next day is loud and constant: _there's only so many hours left, that was a day I'm not getting back_. If Dean didn't know better, he'd feel like he was in a DVD with a huge scratch on it, except Sam got caught in the middle, and Dean's the only one who skipped forward.

Really, the second day is worse in general. It's worse seeing Sam wake up in bed, pale and distant and determined. It's a lot worse getting hugged like he's been gone for years. And it's no treat when Sam pushes them out of the hotel like Dean's Whitney Houston and Sam's Kevin Costner cranked to about fifty. 

Dean's afraid to so much as breathe as he pushes the Impala north as fast as he dares.

It's still not fast enough for Sam if the way he jiggles his leg is any way to judge. But it won't do either of them any good if they wreck. There's only so many hours left anyway.

-

Every setback pulls Sam further away.

Bela and the Colt and Lilith is probably the worst before they reach the last days. Dean had thought he was an egghead bookworm before. Now, Sam spends his nights reading constantly, not looking at Dean or anything else. 

They sleep in separate beds again. The newspaper and the tennis ball are tucked away but still there; Dean sees them poking out of Sam's bag more than once. The newspaper yellows as time passes, and one day, Dean finds it in the trash under Sam's empty coffee cup. He stares at it and wants Sam to say something. Anything.

Sam doesn't open his mouth.

-

The fake phone calls from Dad shouldn't have meant much. After all, Dean's the only one who can keep himself from going to Hell. Dad's long gone.

But when Dean says it aloud, says, "The only person that can get me out of this thing is me," Sam says, "And me." It feels like something again. Not a solution, not the feel of Sam soothing him to sleep, but not a dead end, either.

Still, Dean finds himself poking around for Dad's journal not too long after. He wants some connection again, but from a real piece of Dad. Sam had it last, so Dean goes digging through his things.

He finds it at the bottom of Sam's bag of clothes next to something wrapped in a paper bag. The bag's torn, so when Dean bumps it as he works the journal out, he sees what's inside.

He tears the bag the rest of the way. When Sam gets back in the room, he's still staring.

"Sam," Dean says. "Is this..."

Dean shivers a little as Sam looks over his shoulder. They're not touching, but they're close enough that Dean feels Sam's breath until it stops.

It isn't until Sam clears his throat that he speaks again. "Yeah. But, uh, we don't...I know we never..."

Sam trails off as Dean picks up the collar and lays it on the bed. It's not the kind of thing that comes from a pet store. It's closer to the size of a human throat, complete with a soft pink liner, and the silver o-ring in the front shines in the golden lamp light.

It's beautiful. And even though Dean's stomach twists, even though part of him wants to run as fast as he can the other direction, he's going to die. It's too late to deny what he wants now.

He meets Sam's gaze and carefully sinks to his knees next to the bed. 

Sam's eyes get huge, but he doesn't move. Of course Dean has to ask for it. Tennis balls and newspapers are minor league. 

Dean tilts his head back, exposing his neck. "Please."

Sam doesn't say a word or make a move. Dean closes his eyes so he doesn't have to keep staring at the water stain on the ceiling, but it makes their breaths even louder in his ears. He clenches his fists and forces himself to stay in place.

Finally, shuffling footsteps make their approach, and something loosens in Dean's chest.

Sam caresses his cheek. "It's okay. You want it?"

Dean huffs a breath, but before he can manage to say anything, Sam says, "Okay, okay."

And he wraps the collar around Dean's neck.

It's oddly familiar having something tight against his throat. Maybe not this much or in this position, but he and Sam put on the monkey suits enough that he's used to pressure. It's not the same, though, not even close. A tie and tight shirt collar aren't this soft, and Sam doesn't slip his fingers underneath to make sure a tie doesn't choke. There's no heavy ring in the front to weigh when Dean swallows with a tie on.

But mostly, when Dean opens his eyes to see Sam smiling over him, a necktie doesn't make Dean grin and feel warm. It doesn't make him forget everything else when Sam touches his hair. And that's probably for the best.

-

Sam puts the collar on Dean every night until the end, pets his head and tells him what a good boy he is. The words get more choked and forced with every night that passes. It's not because of anything Dean does - nothing new, anyway - but it's hard to remember.

The last night, they're trapped in a house with Lilith. She lets the hellhounds in, Dean and has a split second to see Sam one last time before everything goes dark. He remembers the feeling of Sam's fingers through his hair.

And then he doesn't remember anything but Sam's name for a very long time.


End file.
